How I develop a new character from scratch

Every character I make begins as a pressure point, not a face. Something has gone wrong: a family secret, a ridiculous ambition, a refusal to behave. I ask what the character wants and why their usual strategy keeps making it worse. That contradiction gives the drawings something to express.

A comic character must work in two languages: visible design and implied speech. I sketch expressions, posture and props before settling on backstory because readers often decide who someone is from a stance before hearing the explanation. The aim is recognition without stiffness, with visual information that supports the joke rather than decorates it.

Developing a new character from scratch is therefore a process of testing relationships. I put the figure beside a friend, an antagonist, a family member and a crowd, then watch which contrasts create energy. The portfolio gathers strips and one-off pieces, including The Dandy work such as George vs Dragon, Boo!, Carrotty Kid and Bad Grandad, but every figure starts with a manageable dramatic problem.

Start with a contradiction

I begin with a premise. For a grumpy relative, the question is why he treats every family gathering like an inspection. I add hidden pressure, perhaps fear of being ignored, and let his behaviour produce the first jokes. His goal gives each panel direction instead of leaving me to invent random mischief.

A useful test is to describe the character without appearance or occupation. If the answer could belong to anyone at pub trivia in Brisbane, I sharpen the conflict. A specific appetite for control, resentment or attention gives me behaviour that can recur without repeating the same gag.

Give the character a voice

Voice turns a situation into a person. I write three or four lines the figure might say, including one that leaks the real motive. A boastful character uses short declarations; a nervous one explains too much. I read the lines aloud until the personality can be heard with the drawings hidden.

Comedy depends on local references. A line aimed at a Melbourne comedy club may need fewer words than one aimed at a family barbecue. I borrow the rhythm of an argument at a sausage sizzle, where people talk over each other and the sauce becomes disputed fact. Specific habits create a voice; stereotypes merely signal a type.

Draw the personality before the details

Once the voice feels secure, I design the body around it. A guarded person gets a closed stance; a show-off needs a silhouette that claims space. Shape, line weight and recurring props should reveal the same psychology as the dialogue. I make tiny thumbnails before adding detail because decoration can weaken clarity.

I also look for movement rather than a fixed portrait. Does the character enter a room, interrupt a sentence or avoid eye contact? Older films teach visual rhythm. Dovzhenko’s centenary reflection prompted me to consider how composition can carry conflict before speech, sharpening how I arrange a reaction across a panel.

Put the character under pressure

A premise becomes convincing when the character behaves under pressure. I invent a scene with a clear objective, place an obstacle in the way and chart three choices: safe, expected and revealing. The wrong choices show where a joke has been made too neat. Surprise should come from personality, not confusion.

Sometimes research supplies the pressure. For a sequence about risk and overconfidence, I checked online craps in Australia to understand the reactions, terminology and interface an Australian player might recognise. The point was not to advertise gambling, but to make excitement and anxiety believable in the local market. A specific detail carries more comedy than an explanation.

Edit for the intended reader

Once the piece works, I edit for the intended reader. I cut lines that explain what the panel already shows, then check whether the final image changes the meaning. A good closing gag rewards the reader twice: once for understanding the setup and again for seeing the character's distinctive response.

For Australian newspapers and magazines, I keep storytelling legible while allowing references native to the audience. A joke built around AFL loyalty, a packed Sydney train or a council meeting can use local knowledge without demanding it. The broader market rewards a universal premise first and a local joke second; readers elsewhere should still understand the predicament.

Keep the version that survives

The final stage is ruthless selection. I print rough pages, pin them up and move away for a while. Distance reveals which drawings work and which are merely busy. The strongest version keeps premise, voice and silhouette in agreement, even if it sacrifices a favourite gag or elaborate prop.

Before locking the character, I compare the first sketch with the version that survives editing. The differences show whether the character has acquired genuine behaviour or merely accumulated accessories. That comparison helps when returning to an old character for a new episode.

Layer	Early sketch	Developed character
Premise	A broad comic situation	A specific goal facing an obstacle
Voice	A recognisable type	Habits and motives that affect choices
Design	Distinctive features	Silhouette, props and movement that agree
Story role	Fills the scene	Changes the scene through behaviour

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Character creation becomes easier to trust when treated as a cycle of writing, drawing, testing and pruning, rather than pure inspiration. The character can surprise you, but the process grounds that surprise in motive, design and timing. Those checks inform the comics, drawings, mini-strips and television projects collected on my site.

If you have a half-formed figure, a recurring voice or a premise that will not sit still, bring it into the room and examine it with another set of eyes. Explore the workshop sessions to develop a character, test the first ideas and leave with material ready for a comic.